


Some Day

by turnedherbrain



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Disney / rom-com crossover, F/M, Fluff, Humor, Love, Modern-day fairytale, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 15:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 13,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18919636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/turnedherbrain/pseuds/turnedherbrain
Summary: Some day my prince will come. Some day I’ll find my love. Some day…Newly arrived in the city. New apartment, new job, new life, new colleagues, and hopefully new friends.New love?Don’t dare to dream. It’s no use having wishes. This is real life, not a fairytale.





	1. The Elevator Incident

That fateful Monday morning. You’re standing in front of the mirror, trying not to listen to your well-meaning but overly intrusive neighbour Celine, and thinking:  _Skirt or trousers? What will look best? And why have I left it until now to decide?_

‘This one, definitely,’ confirms Celine, immaculately manicured fingernails picking up your favourite skirt as if it’s radioactive waste. ‘It’ll suit your... figure...’ all spoken as her eyes skim down to your waist, hips and legs, silently proclaiming them a no-go zone. Not everyone can be a flawless model like her. Is she even a model? You don’t know. She vaguely mentions jobs in far-off, exotic places, and she’s tall enough, like some kind of giraffe-racehorse hybrid. 

Once dressed, Celine shoos you out the door while doing her best motherly impression. ‘Good luck, dear! I want to hear about everything this evening!!’ 

Twenty minutes of commuter-crammed train ride later, and you’re standing in mute awe at the base of the Prince Building on 3rd and Main. The massive skyscraper reaches up to kiss the clouds, the wrought-iron crown on top the instantly-recognisable symbol of the Prince business empire. 

You’ve made it. You’re here. And in more ways than one. Newly arrived in the city. New apartment, new job, new life, new colleagues, and hopefully new friends.  _New love?_ Don’t dare to dream. Wishes are for fairytales.

You exhale in anticipation and enter the revolving doors, pushing against the heavy silvered edge. More than a hundred other Prince workers are milling in reception, making their way through the security barriers and then taking one of several elevators to their designated floor. 

It might be a combination of nervousness and too many early-morning coffees, but you need to dash for a toilet break after picking up your security key card. Thankfully, you’ve left time. Running for the nearest elevator afterwards, you hold out your arm mutely in a gesture that says ‘hold the door!’ and fall in just as the doors swish closed, the lift preternaturally silent even though it’s packed with people. You can feel the person behind you trying not to breathe, as you snake your hand through the squeezed masses and press for floor 22. 

Ten more seconds. You hear a single breath. Another five, and a few colleagues spill out onto a lower floor stop. The doors glide closed again. Suddenly, there’s a faint breath upon your ear, warm and ticklish. 

‘Ummm, sorry,’ a man’s voice whispers, ultra-quietly. It’s the person behind you; they’ve had to lean down awkwardly. ‘You appear to have a... ummm... skirt malfunction?’ 

_What?_ You think, rather than say. You twist to try and view the speaker, but the jostling as the elevator doors open and close again on floor thirteen makes it difficult to see their face, and they’ve politely averted their gaze.  _Skirt malfunction??_

You peer over your shoulder, glancing down at your own...  _oh fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!  
_

So much for presenting a professional image. Your skirt has indeed ‘malfunctioned’ and is tucked into your knickers, giving everyone – well, at least, the person right behind you – a very unprofessional view of your bum. 

Blushing madly from your roots to your tips, you make minuscule movements to loosen your rogue skirt and cover up. You just hope to god this happened  _after_ you went to the foyer toilet. And you really, really hope that you never encounter whoever’s standing behind you, ever again. Now  _that_ would be ultra-embarrassing. 

Floor 22, finally. You exit in haste, skirt freed and presentable. But then you look back, like Orpheus in the underworld... and that’s when it happens. When the world slides into slow motion and a matter of swift seconds becomes a minute; a day... 

You turn around and look at the man you’ve just – kind of – met. Your unknown saviour. He’s tall. So tall. Handsome. Hell yes. Beautiful dresser. Uh huh. Ugh. This is  **bad**. He gives you a tiny wave and a rueful smile that says  _see you later, maybe?  
_

Your breath catches in your chest the carpet turns to sinking sand the air thrills with sudden expectation. You part your lips shakily and begin to say _thank y..._ when the elevator doors close, leaving that indelible glimpse of his face, and your giddy, swirling, unexpected happiness. 

_…_

‘Here’s the most important stuff,’ says your new deskmate Maria cheerfully, giving you a recce of the open-plan office. ‘Stationery cupboard. Pink post-its are in there. Water cooler. Photocopier…’ she waves at someone standing there, their bright blond hair slicked back from their forehead, and is rewarded with a cheeky grin in return. ‘That’s Ben. My best friend in all the world. We’re on the same Global Promo team, so we’ll have a lot of fun together. Hey… you OK?’ Maria regards you with a mixture of amusement and concern. ‘You look kinda fazed. It’s a lot to take in, your first day.’ She rubs your arm kindly, before taking you to see the kitchenette and the all-important coffee machine.

What can you tell her? _I’m not fazed… I simply had a brief encounter in a lift with an unknown male who I can’t stop thinking about. I haven’t got a clue who he is and it’s going to fill my mind for the rest of today?_ No. You have to be professional. Plus, there are more than two thousand people who work in this building. The likelihood of Maria knowing that very someone, based on your sketchy description, is extremely slim.

But still. But still. When you go with Maria and Ben to the enormous staff cafeteria for lunch, the city spread out below, you don’t look at the impressive view. Instead, you take furtive glances around in case you spot the elevator man again. No luck. He could be anywhere right now, on any floor. He could be a janitor – although dressed like that, you highly doubt it. He could be the CEO! You close your eyes, thinking that your earlier spark of good fortune has vanished.

…

Mid-afternoon, and you’re led to a Human Resources induction which takes place in a glass-panelled boardroom. It’s partly boring form-filling about pensions, part-ice breaker for new members of your team. To kick off the icebreaking exercise, the HR team representative welcomes two senior colleagues into the room: ‘Please welcome our Head of Global Promotion, Mr Gwilym Prince.’

Your jaw drops to below floor zero and your face turns the shade of cooked lobster. _It’s him!!! Arghhhh! It’s **him**. He’s your boss?!?! Not **just** your boss. Your _(you do a quick mental calculation) _boss’s boss’s boss. Shit! Fuckfuckfuck._ And then: _He’s seen my **arse**. And my flipping knickers. Ohmygod. What a resumé. _

Mr Prince looks around the room, confidently smiling at everyone in turn. If he does a double-take when he sees you, it’s remedied immediately, the surface cool returning.

‘Hello everyone,’ he starts. ‘I’m really looking forward to working with you all and getting to know you better…’ He coughs slightly, as if clearing his throat. ‘I’m sure you’ll also get to know Sam here, who’s been my bodyguard, personal assistant and life coach for many years. Did I miss anything, Sam?’

Sam, who looks like his head’s a bowling ball about to obliterate all ten pins, smiles benignly. His neck is attached to his shoulders as a tree trunk is rooted into the ground, strong and solid. ‘How about, fairy godmother?’ he gruffs.

Gwilym nods and chuckles. ‘Fairy godmother… exactly. Now, in order to find out a bit more about our new colleagues, we have a bit of an icebreaker for you. The objective is to find out three things the person you’re talking to loves. That can be anything – hobbies, people, places, pets. Pick someone at random, and move on after two minutes. OK?’

He claps his hands and encourages people out of their seats. You notice that Sam has suddenly developed an itch, for his nose is twitching violently. When he sees you staring, he wipes it and the wiggling stops. You could swear that he gives you a slight, conspiratorial wink but you’re not sure – anything could happen after the star-crossed incident this morning.

As soon as the icebreaker timer buzzes, Gwilym heads in your direction. You instantly hope the carpet tiles will turn to lava and you can sink slowly into blissful oblivion.

‘Hello! I’m Gwilym. Nice to meet you properly,’ he smiles. He’s still tall. Still handsome. Still well-dressed. And on a second meeting, he’s polite, friendly and kind of goofy, all of which you like too.

You mumble a reply, embarrassed. Something about ‘elevator incident’ and ‘thank you’ and very definitely avoiding the word ‘ass’ or anything remotely arse-related.

‘Oh, that?’ he replies breezily. ‘I’ve forgotten about it already. Let’s start over, OK?’ He looks at you quite seriously, and you decide that this will be your unspoken pact: never to mention the elevator incident again.

‘OK,’ you confirm. ‘So….’

‘So.’ He’s waiting, one eyebrow raised.

‘I’m Y/N.’

‘Nice to meet you Y/N,’ he grins. _Sexy bastard._

‘What three things do you love, then?’

‘Um, let me see… I really love reading,’ he ponders. ‘Browsing in bookshops. I buy my own body weight in books every month. And I like any kind of sport! Both playing, and watching. And I love cooking for friends, girlfriends…’ He tails off, seeing the rapt expression on your face. ‘What about you, Y/N?’

You like how he says your name. You ramble on until the buzzer goes to swap icebreaker partners, giving way too much detail, noticing how he is attentive and earnest, gaze switching from your eyes to your lips and back again. The floor gradually melts away and you become a gooey mess, and he doesn’t even realise.

…

Four hours later, you’re back in your apartment preparing dinner, having floated home on a cloud. Your cat Figaro is standing on the kitchen counter with her tail imperiously high, mewing for your attention. The sound of the hallway buzzer takes you back to that afternoon and the icebreaker game, and you’re woozy inside all over again. But it’s only Celine, who slinks in and sits like a second cat at the breakfast bar, before purringly demanding: ‘So – tell me _every single detail_!’

Normally, you’d encourage her out the door and sink onto the sofa to cuddle Fig, but tonight you’re bursting out with good news, and you can’t stop yourself from telling her about the elevator incident, the man you kind of met and who he turned out to be. And doing _that_ is a big mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Lyric ‘Some day my prince will come / Some day I’ll find my love’ from ‘Some Day My Prince Will Come’ by Barbra Streisand  
> • If you want to see what the character of Sam looks like irl, he’s named after (and is meant to physically resemble) ex-Welsh rugby captain Sam Warburton : )


	2. The Bookshop

After that heady first day, you soon fall into a happy routine. Riding the elevator skywards each weekday morning, chatting with Maria and Ben, working with the wider team. And although you don’t get to be _quite_ so close to Gwilym Prince as you got at that initial encounter, you still see a lot of him. As Head of your global team, he’s friendly and hands on, constantly checking that people are OK, giving measured praise and taking time to know everyone. He’s always polite, always a gentleman, always impeccably dressed. All of this doesn’t help you though, as you slide further and further into hopeless love with him.

You learn more about his background from Maria, who’s tuned in to office gossip: ‘Apparently what happened is, Gwilym’s uncle killed his father, so the uncle could become CEO. And Gwilym is secretly depressed about the murder but pretending to be cheerful, and actually plotting his revenge.’ She looks at you wide-eyed, expecting a reaction.

‘Ummm, Maria, I’m sure that’s not true,’ you confess, in response to her outlandish tale.

‘But how do you _know_?’ Maria pursues, determined to believe in Gwilym as princely victim.

‘Because that’s the exact plot of ‘Hamlet’?’

‘‘Ham’ what?’ she asks, nonplussed. You shake your head and get back to answering emails. Whatever the real story about Gwilym’s uncle, Vincent Prince is so far from his nephew as is possible to be. Whereas Gwil is open and friendly, Vincent is guarded and shady. He’s not seen about the office much, but instead has his official portrait installed at strategic points around the building, the portrait’s tombstone face and beady eyes eerily following people as they go about their work.

…

About a month after you’ve joined, your small clique of friends is joined by someone else, as another colleague returns from an overseas secondment. He bounds enthusiastically into the office kitchenette as Ben’s attempting to fix the coffee machine, you and Maria taking a five-minute break and leaning against the counter.

‘Hey guys, I’m back!’ the newcomer greets everyone.

‘Joe!!!’ screams Maria, and they run to one another for the biggest bear hug. Ben straightens up and grins broadly, going over to slap his friend on the back and getting a hug in return.

‘Bought you something,’ says Joe, handing Ben a packet of Japanese seaweed crackers. ‘I couldn’t fit much else in my suitcase.’

‘I’m so glad you’re back. This one was mopey without you,’ sighs Maria, motioning towards Ben.

‘No I wasn’t!’ argues Ben, shuffling his feet slightly and looking down at the floor. ‘Oh, have you met our new colleague? Joe, this is Y/N. She works in global promo too. Joe works in Social Media Management, which means…’

‘… I make viral videos,’ grins Joe, coming over to shake your hand warmly. ‘And pretty pictures showcasing our products. Come visit me after lunch, I’m on floor 29.’

You like him instantly: he’s an immensely likeable person. And that first meeting with Joe turns into several, as the four of you hang out together – lunch, pizza after work, Sunday brunches, movie nights.

You need your time off though, because when you’re working, it’s full-on nose to the grindstone with a major account that you and Ben have been given to deal with. The Nascosto account is prestige but tricky, and it demands more of your combined time than all your other accounts put together. One Friday evening, you both need to stay late, poring over the account’s Profit & Loss spreadsheet which you’ve been trying to resolve for hours. You’ve the beginnings of a headache and Ben’s expression is taut with tired concentration.

‘I don’t get it. I don’t get it,’ he’s saying, more to himself than to you. ‘The P&L sheet tallies, but Finance are telling me there’s a sizeable discrepancy. It’s going into a black hole somewhere, Y/N. I just don’t know where.’

‘Have you flagged it to Gwilym?’ you ask, your concern mirroring his.

‘I’m going to. It’s too big not to flag up. First thing Monday, I’ll…’

‘Hello you two! Why are you still here?’ A voice greets you from across the office. It’s Gwil, dressed down and looking like he’s going out for dinner. Self-consciously, you check your hair, smoothing it nervously.

Ben appears on the verge of spilling all the issues with the Nascosto account, but then thinks better of it, and instead replies: ‘We’re just finishing up. Where are you headed to?’

Gwil admits reticently: ‘I’m going on a date. First one in a while so I’m, errr, a bit out of practice. But I met her in a bookshop, so that’s a good sign, right? Wish me luck!’

‘Good luck!’ calls Ben, as Gwil strides off. You echo the words wanly.

‘Have good weekends, both of you. And don’t stay much later!’ Gwil hollers back as he exits, the glass double doors swinging closed behind him.

A creeping sadness comes over you. You know that he’s going to date. You expect that he’s going to have girlfriends. But you’d rather not be faced with it so bluntly. Ben turns to you, seeing your miserable expression. Nudging you gently, he says: ‘Come on, the quicker we sort out this bloody nightmare spreadsheet, the quicker we can go for drinks.’ That’s Ben’s way of telling you he knows, and he cares.

…

So that’s it. Three months in, working in the big city. You’ve got your close-knit group of friends, you’ve got your cute apartment, your adorable cat, your friendly if intrusive neighbour, and your boss’s boss’s boss who you have a not-so-secret mega-crush on. And that’s OK. It doesn’t matter who he’s dating. He can date whoever he likes.

But that all changes one evening when you wander home through SoMa, the district’s avenues lined with galleries and boutiques that call to you like sirens singing of an alluring life: one of immaculately dressed people in immaculately furnished interiors.

You love to window shop here, and halfway along one avenue you see that there’s an art gallery showing in aid of the Prince Foundation. Intrigued – and secretly hoping to bump into Gwilym on his way into the event – you stare in the wide window, wanting to be where the people are, wanting to be part of that world, if only for tonight.

Inside it’s buzzing with guests, all of them the right set. As the crowd parts, you’re surprised to see Celine, her graceful figure clad in a black bodycon dress: perfect hourglass shape outlined in silhouette against the gallery spotlights. A man moves to stand close beside her and study one of the paintings on display, arm slipped around her waist. Their eyes are on the canvas, but their heads incline together in natural symmetry. Your breath halts; your eyes cannot unsee. Gwilym Prince. The man standing next to Celine is Gwilym Prince. _Whaa…?_ _How??_ Your mind rapidly replays miles and miles of conversations with Celine: all those wine-induced confessions; all that tasty information about your gorgeous boss: the guy you have A Thing for.

_Oh my god! Bitch!! Fucking, fucking b…!_

‘Miss?’ asks the gallery doorman, holding open the entrance expectantly. ‘Are you coming in?’

You shake your head angrily before heading off to brew antagonistically in your apartment. Celine, that double-agent, is completely scrubbed off your friend list. You can’t quite believe you’ve been so naïve. All that time she showed so much interest, she was simply finding out everything she could. You don’t know what to do, or think, or feel – only that he’s accidentally become the dupe of this calculating woman just as much as you have. But he looked so happy with her back there, and you don’t know if, or how, you’ll be able to let him know.

…

The following day, you’ve woken up with a sore head and a sore heart. You decide to do what any sane person does in those circumstances: go to your favourite bookshop and have a strong coffee. You leave Joe a message too, hoping that as the most morning person out of your friends, he’ll be awake and might possibly meet you there to hear your story of woe.

You pull on the nearest random clothes you find to hand, quickly run a brush through your tangled hair and exit the apartment, trying not to trap Figaro in the door as she slinks sympathetically after you. Turning the key, you hear a noise and look up. Ahhhh… this is either heaven sent, or a very personal hell is coming to earth, for padding quietly down the stairs from the top-floor apartment, bending down to pull on his shoes as he descends, is Gwilym Prince.

‘Morning,’ he murmurs, looking sheepish. ‘Celine said you were a neighbour. I should have mentioned… but she promised she’d speak to you about…’

‘’s alright,’ you mumble. It’s not alright.

He’s got a bit of mussed-up bedhead and scruff, which is unreasonably sexy. He’s also changed his clothes since you glimpsed him last night, which makes you ache – knowing he’d planned for an overnight stay at Celine’s. However, he’s looking as good as ever, in a dark fitted long-sleeved top, loose olive-green pants that finish mid-calf, and stone-coloured canvas beach shoes, no socks. His ankles are slender and tanned, and so wholly, ridiculously distracting, it makes you realise why this body part was regarded as unseemly in Victorian times. It’s making you slightly dizzy right now.

‘Nice t-shirt,’ he smiles, nodding at your top.

‘Huh?’

‘The t-shirt? It’s nice,’ he repeats.

You look down, only vaguely aware of what you’re even wearing today. Oh. It’s your ‘NOT YOUR PRINCESS’ slogan t-shirt. Appropriately angry. It’s so old, the lettering is faded and flaking.

‘Gwil?’ calls a voice from upstairs, unmistakeably Celine’s. The sound could smash through walls. ‘If they don’t have coconut, then oat. Not almond milk. I can’t _stand_ almond milk. And soy is a last resort.’

‘Got it!’ he calls back up, then whispers to you: ‘I’m on a coffee run. Where are you going?’

‘Ummm, the same, kind of? I’m going to the bookshop, but they have a coffee bar there.’

‘Really? Sounds perfect. Mind if I tag along? I won’t be a nuisance, just get my drinks and go,’ he smiles, being kind of goofy and adorable again. _Ooof. Why is this happening? Why is he with my turncoat next-door neighbour who’s pretended to like books and all the things he likes to persuade him into going out with her and is actually a heinous gold-digger, while I am wearing this t-shirt which is highly ironic because I’d happily marry this particular Prince right now and…_

‘Are you OK?’ Gwil breaks into your train of thought, looking bemused.

‘Yes, fine,’ you assert. ‘Let’s go, before Celine changes her mind about what kind of milk she prefers.’

Gwil responds with a funny upside-down smile, and sweeps his arm low in a gentlemanly gesture that says ‘you first’, before you make your way together to the bookshop.

…

A bookshop is a place of imagination and knowledge. When you step into its hallowed interior, lines of shelving laid with slim volumes wedged alongside fat trilogies, words are waiting to enchant you on every page. 

You sense Gwil’s hesitation as you enter, torn between getting the coffees and going straight back, or taking time to browse and buy an armful of books. His forehead creases into a frown and he rubs his beard reflectively. You can guess which one he’ll choose and the tiny devil on your shoulder is glad that he’s not rushing back to the rumpled morning-after bed with the bitch from upstairs. Although in the stark light of day, you’ve decided to tackle her about the secretive way she’s behaved before you do anything further, aware that you may be judging her too harshly and hastily. 

Gwil bites down on his lip hard and says: ‘I could stay for five minutes, maybe? Celine’s probably gone back to sleep anyway...’ 

You step in unison as you wander through the fiction section. There’s a particular author and book you’re looking for today, a real cheer-up read, and standing right next to Gwil – merely centimetres away – you locate it on a high shelf. You reach up at the exact same second his hand reaches out and your fingers touch, crossing and brushing. There’s a sudden sensation of dizzied twirling to the ground, except there’s no ground and in the clear endless space that remains there’s simply a spark. A powerful, luminous spark. 

You take a sharp in-breath, pulling your hand away like your fingers have been too close to a flame. He’s left with his hand stuck against the edge of the book spine, momentarily dazed. That’s when you think you see – but don’t confirm until much, much later – the figure of Sam at the coffee counter, being served his breakfast muffin, baseball cap pulled low and that nose of his twitching violently again. 

‘Gwil, did you...?’ you begin to ask, turning to look up at the Prince. 

‘I’m sorry... what?’ He’s frowning in confusion, like he’s just awoken in a strange place, and is now holding the book you were searching for in his hands. You feel as jolted as him; like the world has suddenly spun full circle and the tentative connection between you is now turning solid, unbreakable. 

‘Did you see...?’ But then you look over again and Sam – if the man in the baseball cap  _was_ him – has already gone. 

‘Was this the book you wanted?’ Gwil offers you the hardback, the bright page edges dusted in mock gold leaf. ‘I’ve always wanted to read this one too.’ At this point, his words are a blur. You want his fingers to touch yours again. You want to forget about the book; about the world. You want the entire universe to reduce to the two of you, standing here, in this aisle. No other things, no other distractions. Just this single, safe, book-lined space. 

‘Thanks,’ you say, forcing yourself to come back to your senses and take the heavy oblong. ‘I can lend it to you after I’ve read...’

‘It’s OK. I’ll buy myself a copy.’ He gives you a lopsided grin, looking irredeemably gorgeous. Ugh. You want to kiss him so much. Then he adds over-brightly: ‘So… I’d better go! Enjoy your browsing. And your book.’ 

‘Coconut milk, remember?’ you laugh, as he begins to stroll away. 

‘Or soy as a last resort! Yep, I know,’ he shrugs, looking back with a regretful smile that reveals he’d much rather stay here longer. The thing is, you can’t tell if it’s the books, or your company, that’s the real enticement. 

...

Your purchase bagged up, you see Joe searching for you through the store window. He gives you the biggest of hugs as he comes inside. 

‘I got your message honey. It sounds dire. Tell me everything, OK? Oh and – was that Gwil Prince I just said hi to? Because if so, that’s a very interesting development since last night...’ 

He insists on buying your breakfast, then listens intently as you tell him all about Celine, the revelation that she’s Gwil’s new girlfriend and all the times you’d excitedly gossiped to her about your handsome boss. When you’ve finished, Joe purses his lips and taps the side of his coffee mug thoughtfully. 

‘Y/N... is the real issue here that your neighbour has used this information to date the Prince? Or is it that  _you_ would rather be dating him?’ 

Sometimes, Joe is far too incisive. But you have to admit: as much as Celine’s almost definite subterfuge hurts you, it’s more that Gwil’s dating someone else, and not you, that’s the ultimate killer. Joe sees your giveaway expression and leans across the table, speaking with unusual urgency:

‘Listen to me, Y/N. You’re one of my favourite people, and you’re too lovely to waste your time on a fantasy. Please don’t fall in love with the Prince: the odds are _not_ good. I mean, you’re standing in line behind a hundred other women. He’s got a squadron of city socialites on his tail, divebombing him at every engagement. He’s eluding gold-diggers galore. And y’know… a prime example? There’s a girl in my team who every day… Every. Single. Day… takes him a morning coffee. Grande mocha with whipped cream on top. Guess what?’

Joe pauses for dramatic effect while you wait, half-knowing the ending.

‘He doesn’t drink mocha. He drinks flat whites. But the man’s so nice, he can’t bear to hurt her feelings, so she goes on and on and on, buying the man a coffee… I’m sorry honey. He’s a truly nice guy. Just don’t pin all your hopes on him being _the_ guy.’ Joe reaches over and clasps your hand between his sweetly. You’re not sure how you feel, being told these hard truths in the gentlest possible way. He’s right: of course he’s right; about everything. But there’s still a small corner you’re keeping inside yourself to hope, to dream; to believe that there’s a slow-burning fairytale unfolding. Because you felt the spark, the powerful spark, and it wasn’t fantasy. It was real.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • If anyone recognises the similarity between the character name ‘Vincent Prince’ and the actor Vincent Price, that is completely meant. Price often played ghoulish or terrifying characters in Hammer Horror films.   
> • The phrases ‘be where the people are’ and ‘part of that world’ (when the Reader is looking into the art gallery) are both from the song ‘Part of Your World’ from ‘The Little Mermaid’


	3. The Social Committee

You’re cuddled close in bed, it’s not yet daylight, and everything is warm and soft and perfect as he pulls you even closer, your bodies folding into s-shaped contours under the covers. He moves to kiss every part of your body: from your shoulder trailing down your arm across to your navel and lower and lower in an exploratory line before returning much, much later to your lips once again. You breathe deeply, enjoying the purest pleasure of being kissed gently awake, and start to kiss him hungrily in return, wanting him to…

**Brr, brr, brr, brr, brr, brr, brr, brr, brr, brr, brr**

kiss…

**brr, brr, brr, brr, brr,**

and lick…

 **brr, brr, brr** … argh. The sound is becoming impossible to ignore, as you reach out blindly, eyes scrunched up against the demi-light of day, and hit the top of your alarm clock to silence it. 6:15, and just in the middle of a very satisfying fantasy where you were being kissed and more by your office crush. It’s difficult to compose yourself whenever you see him at work, because the dreams you’re having are so vivid and frequent. Especially the elevator dream. Ahem.

You sit up in bed, rubbing your eyes, and discover that Figaro’s perched on the far end like a pharaoh’s statue, regarding you with silent interest. ‘Don’t judge me, Fig,’ you argue, before yawning extensively and heading for the shower. The cat narrows her eyes slightly and returns to grooming her ebony fur, only wondering if her breakfast is being served soon. Human attraction is unnecessarily complicated, and if she could speak human, she would tell you that.

…

It’s been a week since your talk with Joe at the bookshop, and you’ve taken little action to curb your sadness in your waking reality, which is undoubtedly why your dreams are overloaded with pleasant fantasy.

The one thing you really had to do was to confront Celine, so you went to visit her apartment. As the top-floor flat, it’s more spacious than the rest. There’s nothing about the place that says it’s hers. It’s pristine and just so, but there are no personal knick-knacks: no photos, no memorabilia. Nothing that gives anything away. Significantly, there are no bookshelves, and no books.

The conversation goes as you expected. She denies targeting the handsome, eligible businessman you’d told her about in good faith, acting like you’re crazier with each word you speak and pouting with put-on hurt. But one part of the argument sticks with you afterwards. It’s when you ask her:

‘Gwil said he met you at a bookshop.’

‘That’s right!’ Celine smiles at the recent memory. ‘Adler’s. I love reading. It’s one of the many things we have in common.’

‘That’s funny. I have an apartment stacked to the brim with books, yet since we’ve known one another, you’ve never thought to mention you’re a bibliophile?’

‘I’m a _what_?! Please don’t insult me, or I’ll ask you to leave. I don’t have room for bookcases here, that’s all,’ she motions around the almost-empty room. ‘So I keep my books in storage at my parents’.’

When you hear this, you don’t call her out on it, but it’s blatantly a lie. Afterwards, you decide to steer clear of her. If she calls round, you’ll ignore the buzzer. If you see her on the stairs, then you’ll be polite but distant. Nothing more.

The only aspect you feel truly uncomfortable about is her relationship with Gwil. Not because they’re together – you’re learning to stomach that – but because by talking to Celine in the first place, you led her to him. There are several times when you wonder if you should warn him, but then decide no – you don’t have firm evidence of Celine’s two-faced character; and he’s an adult, more than capable of navigating his own relationships. If under the surface, she’s as rotten as you think she is, he’ll hopefully realise soon enough.

…

Anyway, you’ve got enough to occupy your mind without worrying about Celine and Gwil together. Ever since you and Ben investigated the major black hole in the Nascosto accounts, there has been an unravelling, with Finance ‘discovering’ several other discrepancies. You’re both truly overworked and stretched way beyond your pay grade, helping to try and sort the fallout and ensure that your customers are protected. Even Maria and Joe get inadvertently involved, coming on from the sidelines like team physiotherapists during the match.

The one positive amidst all the stress, from your point of view, is that you get into work each day to find your inbox is full of messages from ‘Prince, G.’. OK, so ‘Hardy, B.’ is cc.’d in to every email, but at least you’re directly communicating. You’re both regularly in Gwil’s office too, along with several others in the chain of command.

After yet another urgent Nascosto meeting, you’ve returned to your usual corner, and Ben sees your secret smile as you sit back down at your desk. He perches on the edge of Maria’s workstation and clears his throat, like he’s about to make an announcement.

‘Y/N really enjoyed that meeting,’ he says, speaking ostensibly to Maria. ‘She really, really enjoyed it. She had a _massive_ smile on her face nearly the whole time.’

‘Really?’ asks Maria blithely, not picking up on Ben’s tone. ‘Why?’

‘No, I didn’t Maria. He’s joking. The Nascosto thing is miserable,’ you counter quickly.

‘I know one thing about it that’s making you ver-ry hap-py!!’ Ben sing-songs, in the mood to be cheeky. ‘It’s tall, and it rhymes with ‘will’.’

‘Oh, I get it!’ smiles Maria brightly, before the smile strangely slips from her face and she starts to make little whimpering sounds like a frightened puppy.

‘Shut up, Ben!’ you grumble, wondering what the hell is wrong with Maria.

‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much?’ conjectures Ben, raising an eyebrow expectantly, still sitting at such an angle that he’s completely unaware of what’s coming.

‘Shhhh!’ hisses Maria suddenly, hands flapping in fright like a beached bird. ‘Vin-cent!!!’

You stay sitting still, completely frozen, while Ben reacts swiftly, ducking under Maria’s desk and trying to cram himself in by her swivel chair, just as Vincent looms cadaverously, his ever-present assistant by his side like an invisible chain holds him there.

‘Have you seen Ben Hardy?’ demands Mr Prince’s assistant, huffing with importance. ‘He’s wanted in the inner office. It’s about the Nascosto account.’

You and Maria shake your heads numbly, stupefied by Vincent’s glare. He’s like a male Medusa, turning others to stone with a single glance. 

‘If you see him... tell him: ‘ _He’s wanted...’’_ finishes the assistant in a theatrical whisper, before scampering after the bent back of his master. 

You hear a muffled groan emanating from under Maria’s desk, and peer over the partition to find a red-faced Ben extricating himself from his hiding place. ‘Is it Friday yet?’ he asks beseechingly. Maria just frowns, not seeing the humour in the situation, and helps him out. You wonder though – why Ben, and not you too? It’s almost like there’s an unseen charm in place, keeping you safe from the CEO’s reach.

…

Fortunately, Ben doesn’t have to deal with the immediate wrath of Vincent Prince and possibly being turned to stone, for you both get an IM from Gwil the next afternoon, asking you to come to his office. He’s looking super-smart as usual, in a tailored navy-blue suit, crisp white shirt and Italian silk tie. He’s trying to appear nonchalant but has already got a smile creeping over his face, so both of you know that it must be good news, and you can breathe again.

‘Finance have conducted an internal audit and the missing funds have been located,’ he smiles, seeing the relief on both your faces. You all know that without Nascosto, the Prince company would suffer in terms of its international reputation. ‘However, there will be a fuller, external investigation conducted imminently. There is clearly an issue: whether that’s with our accounting or due to something more nefarious – we don’t know. I’m telling you both because you may be called upon to give testimony as part of this wider investigation. It’s not a legal process and it’s not a court of law. But I’d ask you to give clear and honest answers if you’re interviewed.

‘Another thing I wanted to do is to thank you both. It’s not gone unnoticed, by me or by others, that you’ve put in a sterling effort – both before this crisis, and throughout it. I wanted to say a personal thank you, and to let you know that I’m considering appropriate rewards. You’ve both done extremely well, and I’m proud to have you on my team.’

You don’t dare look over at Ben, because you’re truly moved by Gwil’s speech and know that he means every single word. If you catch Ben’s expression right now, it might make you happy cry.

‘Thank you,’ says Ben, his voice a half-octave lower all of a sudden. ‘Me and Y/N… we’ve worked so hard. We’re keen to do the company proud; to do you proud.’

Gwil stands up and shakes both your hands. You’re free to go back to your desks, where you glow for the remainder of the day. That evening, you, Ben, Maria and Joe go out for what’s meant to be a quiet pizza and ends up with you in a karaoke bar doing a shouty quartet of ‘Mr Brightside’. You don’t celebrate every night, so it’s got to happen, you tell yourself as you trip over Figaro on your way in at 4am.

…

After a 48-hour post-celebration hangover, you’re glad to crawl towards the weekend and finally have some downtime to simply relax, read and catch up on your favourite TV back at the apartment. Unfilled time also gives you thinking space, and makes you realise that the dreams you’ve been having – as good as it is to wake up with a happily flushed, if guilty face – are blooming out of the feelings you’ve sublimated for the last few months.

Now that you’re alone and relatively unoccupied, you let those feelings flood back to the surface, and know without doubt that you’re still irreversibly, unalterably in love with Gwilym Prince. It’s an indescribable feeling. But it’s there in how your heart so gladly soars and dips when he’s around, like you’re freewheeling through an endless sky, or on a rollercoaster swooping into giddy oblivion.

If only he wasn’t dating your neighbour. If only he wasn’t your boss. If only…

…

Back at the office on Monday, you don’t have time to resuscitate yourself from the Nascosto debacle before another, conversely fun thing comes along to take up your time. It all starts at lunchtime, when a visibly excited Joe skids his meal tray along the table and leaps over the canteen bench as he joins your group of friends.

‘Hey guys!’

‘Hey!’ you, Ben and Maria all chorus.

‘So, you know there’s the bicentenary coming up?’ The firm’s two-hundredth year is being celebrated with several staff events, culminating in a themed ball at the city’s Grand Hotel. But in the major stress of recent weeks, you and Ben haven’t even surfaced to know what’s currently going on. ‘Well, I’ve been asked to head up the social committee, which means… helping to organise the ball!’ Joe claps his hands eagerly while Ben, realising what’s coming next, starts looking around for a possible escape route. ‘So you guys, I can count on you to help? I mean, we’ll be the dream team!’

‘Definitely!’ says Maria.

‘I don’t know…’ demurs Ben. ‘I’m kind of busy.’

‘Ah, c’mon man…!’ wheedles Joe.

‘OK,’ affirms Ben, always a softie for Joe but looking as if he’s instantly regretted his decision.

‘What about you, Y/N?’ Joe turns to look directly at you, with an expression like a spaniel who’s the last dog in the pound. Argh. This is so hard. Joe’s such a sweetie.

‘Is it OK if I don’t?’ you reply. ‘The whole thing with Nascosto… I think I just need to focus on catching up with my other work.’

Joe appears a little hurt. ‘No problem. I’ll just tell Gwil Prince you turned me down…’ He lets that statement hang, while both Maria’s and Ben’s heads swing in your direction, wanting to see your reaction.

‘Gwil? What did he say?’ you ask, trying and failing to sound indifferent.

‘Oh, you know, he might have suggested you as one of the committee members. Some superlatives might have been dropped. Are you in, or not?’ beams Joe, knowing you’re invisibly caught.

‘Yeah. I mean, I don’t want to miss out on working with the dream team…’

‘Exactly, Y/N, exactly,’ laughs Joe, giving you a quick wink before tucking into his meatball sub.

…

‘So, the theme for the ball is … … …’ Joe pauses for over half a minute while the fifteen other people in the room – you, Ben and Maria among them – wait politely. ‘… modern fairytale!!!’

Everyone immediately breaks into animated discussion, some people loving the idea, others hating it. But the overall consensus is that it blends the old with the new – which is what a 200th anniversary event should do – and it allows people to dress up in ball-type clothes, if they really want to.

‘I am _not_ going to wear those princely pants, the ones that puff out,’ moans Ben.

‘Why not? I think you’d look great, Ben,’ teases Joe. He’s in his element as social organiser. ‘Now, we need to brainstorm some stuff: decorations, music, catering and I’ve got one huge ‘anything else’ category.’

You break into four small groups to do just that. Joe’s a great motivator, throwing sweets at anyone who comes up with the best ideas, although the most common phrase of the evening is _‘not helpful, Ben’_. You suggest a ‘make a wish’ booth. Someone else says there should be Disney-themed ballroom dances for the last hour. By the time the session is nearly over, you’ve got a flipchart filled with five pages of colourfully jotted ideas.

At that point, Gwil knocks politely and enters the room, looking visibly pleased to see evidence of such progress. He’s dressed in tennis whites and carrying his racquet, and you groan inwardly because it’s yet another outfit he looks unreasonably good in.

‘How’re you getting on?’ he asks Joe.

‘Great so far,’ replies Joe, gesturing to the flipchart. ‘As you can see, we’ve generated a whole album’s worth of ideas!’

‘In that case… you’ll probably need a bit more money to make all those ideas a reality?’ Gwil slips a note onto the table under Joe’s gaze.

Joe blanchs and stares, gulping before replying quietly: ‘That’s generous. _Hugely_ generous.’

‘The corporate board agreed to it this afternoon. It’s not often we celebrate our two-hundredth birthday. I’ll leave you to it,’ he adds, patting Joe on the shoulder, the poor man still visibly in shock.

After Gwil departs – you trying not to stare at him in those tennis shorts – Joe finally comes to his senses. ‘So guys. Our budget for this event has just tripled. Which means,’ he says, turning his head to look over at the flipchart again, ‘that we have the money to do most, if not all, of this stuff. This is going to be the best goddamn ball, ever!’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • ‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much’ is a slight paraphrase of Queen Gertrude’s line in Shakespeare’s ‘Hamlet’   
> • The phrases ‘indescribable feeling’ and ‘freewheeling through an endless sky’ are both lyrics/paraphrased from ‘A Whole New World’, from ‘Aladdin’


	4. The Dress

_The best goddamn ball_ _ever_ – Joe’s words – demands the best, most princess-y, of ball dresses. That’s the law according to Maria, who’s currently spending each lunch hour scrolling through designer sites and making moodboards so she can put together her look.

Your approach is more handmade. Ever since you were small and saw the animated film of Cinderella, you’ve wanted to wear that gown. So you’ve scoured haberdashery departments for materials and searched for the perfect dress pattern. You’ve even bought yourself a second-hand dressmaker’s mannequin that’s now standing in the corner of your bedroom while Figaro curls herself below it, believing she’s got a wooden doll for a human.

You’re making the dress from a pale blue satin draped with a single layer of silver-blue tulle, and scattering seed pearls and miniature crystals onto the full skirt like hundreds of fallen stars. The work is arduous, taking you several hours at a time – especially sewing the tiny stars onto the skirt. Sometimes, you wish this was a fairytale, so that nature would come to assist you: birds flitting to and fro with silken thread, squirrels darting about to gather up the skirts, and rabbits hopping along the window ledge with blooms to adorn the bodice.

But as the date of the ball edges closer, and the dress takes shape, you know that it will be the most special dress you’ve ever worn, and worth all the time and effort you’re taking.

…

At work, Joe is managing the social committee like an enthusiastic whirlwind, and he’s a lot of fun to be working alongside. There’s also good news for you and Ben – the promised reward from Gwil turns out to be immediate promotions for you both. Ben is given international Promo accounts to manage, meaning he’ll be travelling much more. ‘First class flights, baby!’ he crows, lording it around your corner of the office until Maria kicks him and tells him he’s still getting her an espresso from the coffee machine right now or else.

You’re asked if you’d like to move up – and out – into Joe’s Social Media team. You’re unsure at first, until you’re given a couple of days to think it over. The only negatives, as far as you can see, are that you won’t be working with Ben and Maria directly any more, and you won’t be within Gwil’s realm. But that’s not bad – you can still see your friends, and you know that you’ll love working with the adorable Joe. And the secret reason you’re happy to move on: maybe if you _don’t_ work for Gwil any more, you can meet up with him socially?

…

The weekend before the ball, it’s late Sunday afternoon and you’ve just returned from another bookshop trip, the damp drizzle having encouraged you home. From the stairwell, you hear a familiar voice call your name. It’s Gwil, sitting forlornly on the staircase leading up to the top-floor apartment, his face and hair still wet with rain. ‘Celine’s not answering her phone,’ he says, as a brief explanation, ‘so I thought I’d wait here.’

‘Do you want a hot drink?’ you ask, feeling sorry for him more than anything, and resisting the strong urge to wipe away the droplets from his skin. ‘I’m sure she’ll be back soon.’

‘Yes please,’ he replies, helping you with your heavy bag as you open the apartment door. Figaro mews a greeting and rubs in adoration against his ankles as he bends down to stroke behind her ears. You watch them as you put on the kettle, thinking Fig’s just like you – one very brief encounter with this man and she’s already smitten.

‘Milk? Sugar?’

‘Just milk, please,’ he says, coming over to put the book-filled bag on the counter and peering inside with unabashed curiosity. ‘More books? You’re like my secret twin. Where are you going to fit them?’

You laugh, because your apartment’s stacked floor to ceiling already. ‘I’m sure I’ll find a little nook somewhere. I believe you can never have too many books.’

‘I wholeheartedly agree,’ he nods, before wiping his face with the back of one hand and shrugging off his marl grey sweater which is mottled with raindrops. All at once, you’re not feeling sorry for him anymore, but something entirely different, for underneath he’s wearing a plain white t-shirt that skims his torso and outlines his biceps. You’re suddenly very, very thirsty.

‘Here you go.’ You hand him the tea, being careful to offer it handle out. You both chat for a while about anything and everything – your new role at work, hobbies, family, friends. He’s quite honest about his life: how much he loves his job; and how much he hates the politics and hand-shaking that goes with his position and his family name. He’s intelligent enough to know that it’s a necessary evil, but that doesn’t mean he has to like mingling with pompous millionaires.

Strangely, although he thumbs his phone intermittently to see if Celine’s messaged him, he doesn’t mention her once. You keep on expecting her step in the outside hallway, and the distinct buzz at the door as she comes to reclaim him. After an hour, however, it’s clear that she’s not coming back – yet. The drizzle has turned to a downpour and although it’s not evening, the darkening skies feel like night.

‘Do you want me to go?’ asks Gwil, finishing his second cup of tea. ‘You must have things you’d like to be getting on with.’

‘Not at all!’ you reply instantly, and you mean it. ‘The only thing I’m doing, is finishing off making a dress.’

‘Really? Is it for the grand ball? Can I see it?’

‘So many questions!’ you tease. ‘Hmmm, well, it **_is_** for the ball, so maybe you shouldn’t? Isn’t it bad luck to see someone in their dress, prior to the event?’

‘Isn’t that the groom seeing the bridal dress before the wedding day?’ he laughs. ‘But if you’d rather I waited…’

‘OK then, I’ll show you,’ you shrug. Going to retrieve the dress from the mannequin in the bedroom, you re-enter with the gown held against you, twirling so that it shimmers brightly in the interior light.

‘Wow. Just… wow. When you said _‘making a dress’_ I didn’t think… It’s – amazing!’ gasps Gwil, standing back so he can take in the full view. ‘I know women who would pay several thousand dollars for a dress like that. You are immensely talented. And you’re going to look so beautiful…’ He means this as an aesthetic comment, rather than complimenting your intrinsic beauty, but you feel a glow rising up inside and decide that you’re going to twirl around and head right back into the bedroom before you’re really blushing.

‘Do I get to claim the first dance with you at the ball?’ Gwil calls after you.

‘If you like!’ In the safety of the other room, you carefully pass the dress back over the mannequin and smooth it out, secretly thrilled by his reaction.

‘Hey – would you like to watch a film?’ you suggest, wandering back into the kitchen to find that Gwil’s lifted one of the books out of your shopping bag and is already stuck into the first chapter.

‘Sounds good.’

‘I’ve got Netflix, so pick anything you like,’ you say, passing him the remote. He leaves the book aside and starts to scroll through the endless options – comedy, romantic comedy, drama, heist, thriller. You reach up into a cupboard and then dunk a pack of popping corn in the microwave. ‘Do you like popcorn?’

He gives you a look of complete incredulity. ‘Of course! How many toppings do you have?’

‘Ummm… I’ve got maple syrup, sugar, salt, chocolate spread. Strawberry jam??’ He pulls an eww face. ‘Oh wait, some Maltesers, I could crumble those…’

You look over at him, expecting him to say ‘stop’ any minute, but he doesn’t. ‘Sounds yummy. Yes please to everything except the jam.’

‘What – all of them mixed together?’

‘Why not?’ He sees your mystified expression and amends this to: ‘Or maybe in little separate bowls, so we can dip the popcorn?’

While you get everything prepared, he carries on scrolling. ‘Oh yessss!’

‘What?’

‘The Princess Bride. Classic. I love that film. It’s got sword fights, comedy, great characters, memorable lines…’

‘… kissing…’ you sneak in.

‘Oh yeah, kissing,’ he laughs. ‘Do you want to watch that?’

A half-hour later, you’ve got a tableful of snacks, an open bottle of red wine, and The Princess Bride playing. Gwil’s insisted on sitting in the armchair so you can relax on the couch. He’s drawn up one of his long legs against his chest and you’re both chortling and spilling your popcorn onto the carpet.

‘The popcorn plus chocolate spread dipped in crushed Maltesers is reeealllyy good…’

‘See – I told you it was!’

You both giggle again as you miss your mouth and the popcorn disappears down a crack in the sofa. This is a lot of fun. It’s like having a night in with your long-term boyfriend, not your ex- boss’s boss’s boss who you have a mega crush on. By now, the thought of Celine reappearing has faded into the background and you’re enjoying yourself too much to care when she’ll return. However, she’s on Gwil’s mind, for in a quiet moment during the film, he asks you suddenly:

‘Y/N… what do you think of Celine?’

‘What do I _think_ of her?’ _She’s a two-faced, coolly conniving b-_

‘Yeah. I mean, you must know her quite well, being neighbours?’ he persists, looking like he really wants your opinion.

You consider quickly, wondering what to say. ‘I- I don’t think I know her at all. Or at least, only very superficially.’

‘She’s like an onion.’ Gwil remarks strangely, sipping his wine and staring at the TV screen. ‘The more I get to know her, the more layers that peel away… each one’s the same – layer after layer of translucent sameness.’

‘Hmmm.’

‘Sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.’

‘It’s fine. You said what you thought. More popcorn?’ You offer him the bowl as a distraction. He gives you a wry smile that’s covering up some troubled thoughts. That must be why he was waiting for her. Something’s happened between them. Something that’s made him seriously doubt her.

As if Celine is a radio receiver tuned into hearing her own name, you hear a distinct tread on the stairs at that moment and then seconds later, the buzzer sounds. You look at Gwil, who doesn’t bound to answer it but gets up reluctantly, like he’s readying for battle, and opens the door.

‘Celine. I didn’t know where you’d got to, so I was waiting here. Y/N was showing me the dress she’s made for the ball,’ Gwil explains when he sees her. They’ve definitely had a row: the atmosphere is tinged with discontent.

‘Come on,’ Celine says immediately, taking his hand. ‘We can go to dinner now.’ She doesn’t apologise for her absence. But before they leave, Celine dragging Gwil like he’s going to the guillotine, she shoots you a sudden glare that would melt an ice queen’s palace. Don’t – says the glance – try to defeat me.

…

You dream that you’re sitting in your lounge, on Gwil’s lap. Celine is walking about, seemingly unconcerned that you’re on her boyfriend’s knee. She’s taking books off the shelves: not reading them, but taking them and flinging them to the floor. You’re uncomfortable and squirming but Gwil’s got his arm around your waist and pulls you down tighter. ‘It’s OK,’ he says. ‘It’s OK.’

You wake to the Monday morning **br-br-br** of the alarm clock. That wasn’t a nice dream. You want your fantasy dreams back. That one was far more disturbing.

Once at work, you switch on your laptop to find that the Instant Message box is flashing up in the corner of the screen, the letters ‘GP’ in a circle accompanied by a short text. You look around furtively like you’ve done something wrong, before reading:

_Had a great time, especially the popcorn experiment. Sorry the fun got cut short – G_

There’s a little smiling face emoji tagged on, bouncing up and down and waving at you. You hesitate before replying. How should you respond? Sincere, silly, deadpan? You end up going with the bland, boring:

_No problem! You’re welcome._

and add an animated smiley face. After you’ve sent it, you agonise for five minutes about whether that might have appeared less friendly than his message and wonder if you should send a follow-up, but then finally decide to just chill out and stop over-analysing everything.

‘Hey!’ says Joe, sitting down at his desk opposite you. ‘Good weekend?’

‘Yes it waa- ’ You stop mid-sentence, because another message box has appeared on your screen. No emojis this time, but the content is clear: ‘ _We should do it again sometime.’_

Remembering your dream, you guiltily click on the x to dismiss the message and look over at your friend, who’s waiting patiently. ‘Sorry Joe! Yes, it was thanks! How was yours?’

Joe tells you a very funny story about his extended family and his great-aunt’s birthday party, which means you have breathing space to consider your next message. When you reply nearly ten minutes later, you type with trepidation: ‘ _As you wish_.’ Short and simple, but The Princess Bride reference leaves absolutely no room for misinterpretation.

You receive a lot more IMs that day, and you have the same guilty dream that night.

…

The dreams shake you so much that you sleep late and are one of the last people into work the next day. Disturbingly, even though it’s a normal Tuesday, there’s no-one at their desks. Putting your bag down, you hear an insistent _buzz buzz_ and extricate your phone. You have messages from Joe, Maria and Ben – all urging you to do the same thing – come up to the staff cafeteria.

When you arrive, there’s a mass of people, all of them standing and looking out of the windows like they’re impatient passengers awaiting take-off at an airport.

‘What’s going on?’ you ask, locating your friends among the crowd.

‘It’s Vincent…’ says Joe.

‘… they’re arresting him.’ Maria nods at the street below, where a motorcade of official-looking black sedan cars is arriving. An escort of several agents surrounds Vincent Prince as he walks from the building, handcuffed but head still held high. News cameras swing to capture every second and passers-by, who don’t even know exactly what’s happening, film the footage on their phones.

Ben turns from looking at the scene below, and fills in the detail for you: ‘Haven’t you checked your phone this morning? Or switched on your TV? It’s everywhere. Vincent’s been siphoning money through Prince Inc., using our business accounts to avoid higher rate taxes elsewhere. _That’s_ why the Nascosto accounts were so crooked. He’s been arrested for fraud. Good riddance. He was a shit.’

‘Ah, c’mon Ben, he wasn’t _that_ bad,’ Joe argues.

‘He _was_. Vincent was a bully, and now he’s a thief.’ Ben thinks of all the misery the Nascosto dilemma caused, and how it could all have been avoided if Vincent had been exposed earlier.

‘Who’s going to be CEO now?’ asks Maria, a question that’s being echoed by thousands of other employees in the city office and in other offices worldwide.

‘Gwil’s got my vote. He should be the next CEO,’ confirms Ben.

‘It’s whether he wants to be,’ muses Joe.

‘Wait… does this mean the ball’s cancelled?’ is Maria’s next question. You’ve got to admit, other than wondering how Gwil’s feeling right now – it’s his uncle and his family business; their name on the masthead – you imagine the ball will be cancelled. Surely a celebration of the company’s success won’t chime well with the very public downfall of its most senior officer?

But you’re wrong. Later that day, an all-staff memo circulates, reassuring everyone about the current situation; informing staff about the succession plan for the next CEO, and finally mentioning the bicentenary events: _‘The thousands of loyal, dedicated Prince employees shouldn’t be punished for the actions of a single man. Therefore, this Saturday’s celebratory ball will go ahead as planned.’_

You message Gwil, telling him you hope that he’s OK. You understand when he doesn’t reply, because right now, there will be urgent discussions going on to decide who will sit at the helm of the Prince business empire, and for now, that must occupy his heart and mind.

…

You don’t see Gwil again until Thursday morning, and it’s under the most emotional of circumstances.

You’d arrived back home late the previous evening, letting yourself in to find that Fig is sitting on the lounge carpet, playing with a jagged length of tulle fabric. You frown, unsure of how she’s got hold of the piece. Maybe you’d left some out of the odds and ends box?

Wandering into your bedroom, you gasp in shock, sagging onto the bed and covering your mouth. You’re tearful; trembling. The dress – what’s left intact – has been ripped and shredded, pearls and crystals spilling onto the floor like raindrops turned to ice. You don’t understand – who would do this? Who would be so vindictive as to deliberately ruin your dress?

You take the stairs two at a time; bang on the door furiously. Celine opens up languidly, taking her time. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she says, affecting innocence.

‘You! You know what’s the matter! I don’t know how you got in, but what you’ve done… why you’ve done it… it’s beyond redemption.’ You’re standing on the threshold, steaming with anger.

‘I’ve no idea what you’re referring to,’ she replies calmly.

‘My dress. My fucking dress! It’s shredded… it’s – it’s ruined!’ And you burst into tears.

‘Calm down, Y/N. I’m sorry about your dress, but I’ve no idea how it happened. I’ve been away at a shoot for the last two days. Perhaps that naughty cat of yours did it?’

You regard her balefully, tears streaming down your cheeks. Liar. You can’t prove it, yet again, but she’s a liar. What cat could so systematically, so cleanly, so thoroughly, shred a dress? Especially not Fig.

You don’t try and call on your friends that night, because you don’t know what they’ll be able to do or say to help. Maria might be able to order you another dress online maybe. But you don’t want just any gown. You want to wear _your_ gown: the one that you spent hours upon hours making, the one that makes you feel like a princess.

The next day, you arrive at work red-eyed, and miraculously the first person you bump into is Gwil, who’s on the way to another early-morning emergency board meeting. He’s looking down at his phone, thumbing quickly through his many emails and almost passes you, but then raises his head at the last minute and seeing you, stops immediately.

‘Y/N! What’s wrong?’ He puts a concerned hand on your shoulder and moves closer. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t messaged. Since what’s happened with my uncle, I’ve been completely preoccupied.’

‘It’s absolutely fine,’ you sniffle. ‘And I’m sorry about what’s happened. I really hope you’re OK right now. Plus, my thing,’ you add, waving your hand at your blotchy face, ‘is nothing important in comparison.’

‘I’m sure it’s important. I can be a bit late for this meeting,’ he assures you. ‘Please tell me.’ He’s still got his hand on your shoulder, and now he runs it down your arm gently. It feels warm and perfectly right and just that slight touch makes you very happy, which is a strange sensation when you’re also on the verge of crying.

‘It’s my dress: the one I’ve made for the ball. Someone has slashed it, and now it’s completely unwearable. And I spent so much time…’ You crumple, while Gwil strokes your arm and murmurs: ‘It’s OK, it’s OK.’ 

Aware that more colleagues are filtering in and heading for their desks, Gwil guides you to a small meeting room and sits you down, taking charge: ‘This is what we’re going to do. My PA will go and get Maria, so she can come and sit with you. Stay here for as long as you need, until you’ve got your composure back. Then: go home. I’ll send Sam round later this morning to collect the dress, and he’ll sort out the rest. By the way: do you have any idea who it was?’ he asks, looking like he wants you to say a name but knowing you won’t.

‘I suspect. But I’ve got a way more pressing need than uncovering the culprit. I can’t go to the ball without a dress.’

‘My thoughts exactly.’ For a fleeting moment, he looks as if he’s about to lean in and kiss you, but then puts his arm round your shoulder instead, giving it a quick, sympathetic squeeze before departing.  

…

When Sam arrives later to pick up your dress, his massive brick-like form filling the room, he takes one look at the destroyed handiwork and sighs, jutting his index finger skywards. ‘Her upstairs, I suppose?’

‘How do you…?’

‘I observe,’ he replies sagely. ‘And what I observed of Celine, I didn’t like at all.’

‘Why didn’t you tell Gwil?’

‘He needs to make his own choices, and his own mistakes. I’m simply here to guide him, and hope he makes _better_ decisions the next time. Like with you.’

‘With me? Sam… were you there in the bookshop that time? I felt something strange. It was like… well, I can only describe it as a powerful spark. It must sound ridiculous.’

‘Not ridiculous.’ Sam shakes his head slowly. ‘And yes, I was in the store that day. But honestly, true love happens without me intervening. I didn’t make the spark – you did. _Both_ of you. The one thing I can do for you right now though, which doesn’t require any magic, is to take this beautiful dress and have it re-made. Mr Prince’s personal tailor is both dextrous and speedy, so I should have a near-perfect copy of the original with you in good time before the ball. Which means…’ he breaks into a wide smile, as you realise what he’s about to say…

‘Go on: please say it,’ you urge him, wanting to hug your very own fairy godmother.

He grins and declares happily: ‘Y/N? You **shall** go to the ball.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • ‘Nascosto’ means ‘hidden’ in Italian, and that account was where Vincent hid the money ; )  
> • I have NO IDEA what I’m talking about with the whole finance stuff around the ‘Vincent is arrested for fraud’ thing. Can you tell? ; )


	5. The Grand Ball

_‘Some day my prince will come  
Some day I’ll find my love’_

You remember when you were a girl: your mum would braid your hair and sing that song over and over, until the words have woven themselves into your memory. _Some day._ You believe in _some day_. Tonight is the ball, and although the recent seismic wave of Vincent Prince’s departure has upset the company, everyone is still abuzz with anticipation for the bicentenary event.

At seven o’clock promptly, Joe comes to pick you up, bowing in his midnight blue velvet tuxedo at your door. ‘My lady,’ he greets you, in a comically deep baritone. ‘Truly, you will be the belle of the ball tonight.’ 

You giggle and tell him how handsome he looks, while he asks you to twirl around in your dress, Figaro looking on from her perch atop the bookshelves. He then hands you something to complement your outfit: an organza scarf streaming with miniature silver stars. ‘It’s so beautiful!’ you exclaim. ‘Thank you, Joe. I don’t deserve this.’

‘Thank _you_ , Y/N,’ he insists. ‘And you definitely deserve it, for your hard work in helping prepare for the ball. I got everyone on the social committee something.’

‘But what about you – where’s your gift? You’ve worked the hardest out of us all!’

‘My reward will be seeing the looks on people’s faces when they step into that ballroom tonight. That’s when I know I’ll have done a good job.’ Joe holds out his arm in a gallant gesture to take you down to the waiting open-top carriage, where Ben and Maria are already ensconced on a cushioned seat. Ben’s wearing a classic black tuxedo with silk stripes down the outer trouser legs (‘Go faster stripes,’ he quips) while Maria’s endless research has paid off: she’s wearing a beautiful Atelier Versace gown that should have cost two months’ salary but that she bought in the sale for a fraction. It fits her perfectly. Your dress is a dream – as Sam promised, it’s almost an exact replica of the one you made yourself, and sitting in the ornate carriage, wearing the blue satin gown with your hair up and accessorised, you can finally believe in yourself as the Disney princess of your childhood.

You spend the ten-minute ride to the Grand Hotel taking group selfies and waving to the people on the sidewalks. When you arrive, it’s to a red carpet, people in black tie and ballgowns making their way in, limos and carriages gathered around the entrance. The Grand Hotel is appropriately named: you enter a resplendent lobby and climb a sweeping central staircase to the chandeliered ballroom.

The ballroom itself is beautiful; the ceiling decked with thousands of fairy lights against a dark backdrop. There is enough food for quadruple the number of guests; enough alcohol for a hundred party nights. The serving staff are cosplaying in Disney-themed fairytale outfits, and you spy Aladdin serving the punch while Snow White checks the coats. Maria and Ben make a beeline for the ‘throne room’, where you can pretend to be the king and queen of Princedom in a photo studio and try on various outfits.

They’re not the only ones dressed up. Although most men have opted for the usual black tie, there are a few colleagues who have decided Renaissance prince costumes would be a perfect plan, and there’s even one lady who’s turned up in full-on medieval princess regalia, complete with the tall, pointed hat and veil.

‘This is amazing, Joe,’ you say, gazing around. ‘You’ve done such a good job.’

‘ _We’ve_ done such a good job,’ he corrects you, with an _‘aw, shucks’_ look upon his face. ‘But yeah, I can finally breathe again. Want some punch?’

‘Yes please.’

Before the buffet begins and the dancing kicks off, Gwil takes to the stage to give a short speech about the bicentenary, thanking the staff, and mentioning ‘Joe and his social committee, without whom tonight wouldn’t be taking place. And now I’ll stop talking so you can start dancing, because tonight isn’t about boring speeches, it’s about celebrating with colleagues.’

As the music starts, Joe takes your cup from you and extends his hand in invitation to the first dance, asking: ‘May I…?’

You nod gladly, but then glance over towards the stage and see that Gwil is picking his way through the crowd towards you, aiming to do exactly the same. You exchange a look with him over Joe’s shoulder that says a regretful sorry, and he gives an exaggerated shrug and mouths ‘later’.

It turns out to be much later when you see him again though, and when you do, you misinterpret badly.

…

After over three hours of eating, drinking and dancing, you’ve gone to top up your drink, squeezing yourself in amongst the waiting people. At the other end of the long bar, partly obscured in the dim light, you think you see Gwil leaning over and talking animatedly with someone who’s listening intently. The dancefloor strobes flash momentarily and you see their slender, manicured fingers over his forearm…

 _Shit. What the…?_ You’re suddenly glad of the crush of colleagues about you, holding you up. You’ve spent part of this week seriously flirting with Gwil over IM. He’s as much as said he’d like to see you again. He came to find you for the first dance of the night. Aaaand now you’re crashing back into reality, because here he is, with his girlfriend, who by the way you’re 99.9% certain is responsible for sabotaging your dress in particularly vicious, cruel manner.

They’re welcome to one another.

Gathering your skirts, you run out of the ballroom and to the interior balcony, pressing the button for the elevator multiple times. It’s an antique mechanism, and the needle moves round the semi-circular dial above the doors slowly, slowly.

2,    3,     4,     5

_Come on come on come on !!!_

You’re on the fifteenth floor, and you wonder if it’ll be easier to run, so you lift your skirts again and dash up the central stairs, panting and puffing wildly by the time you reach the hotel roof, pushing hard against the fire escape door and gladly breathing the cool night air.

Dammit! You’ve lost a shoe. You’re going to stay up here now anyway and clear your head. You limp to sit on the low wall at the edge of the rooftop and gaze out over the cityscape: at the apartment blocks, hotels and restaurants partly lit, the yellow squares of light looking like bright block paint against a black canvas. Cars and taxis shuttle down the avenues, but up here, it’s peaceful and quiet – except for the muffled noise of the ballroom disco: the pop mingled with Disney ballads, just like employees voted for.

‘I think this belongs to you?’ A voice comes out of the darkness, and Gwil steps away from the shadow of the fire escape door, holding out your missing shoe. ‘Why are you up here?’

‘I wanted some air,’ you say, taking the shoe and sulkily slipping it back on, but not looking directly at him or giving thanks.

‘Have I done something wrong?’ he asks, sitting down opposite you on the parapet, the shape of his body mirroring yours.

‘No. Maybe… perhaps. I saw you with Celine…’

‘Oh. And what did you _think_ you saw?’

‘That you’re still together?’ you say miserably.

‘No. We’re not together. We weren’t together when I saw you last week, if that’s what you’re wondering. She’d asked me to come round and talk it through. She wanted one more chance. And then she’s turned up tonight. Gatecrashed, basically. What you saw just now was me telling her to leave, and go as far from here as possible. I know what she did, Y/N, and it’s unforgivable.’

‘You do? I thought I was the only one that… well, me and Sam…’

‘No. It took me longer than most to figure her out. But she won’t be bothering either of us anymore. I’ve asked Sam to take care of it.’

‘What?!’ You aren’t thinking straight, and have a stupid over-reaction. ‘I mean… I don’t like her, she’s done some nasty things, but I didn’t want…’

‘Y/N!’ He laughs uproariously. ‘I don’t mean like _that_. We’re not the Mafia. I mean more like: take a job out of the city. Or preferably out of state.’

‘Oh.’ You pause, as the idea of never seeing Celine again is seeded. It’s a pleasant thought. ‘Thank you for that. And for this,’ you add, sweeping your hand down the dress. ‘it’s almost as perfect as the original. I don’t know how I can repay you.’

‘You don’t need to,’ he says, in all seriousness. An evolution of emotion crosses his face, and he looks up into the sky, clearly thinking about other issues than Celine or your dress. You know what the burden is: Vincent and the impending trial; and the consideration of who will become the next CEO.

‘What are you thinking about?’ you ask him gently.

He sighs and looks down at his hands, inspecting splayed fingers. ‘Sorry. I was thinking about my father, and how the business ran him ragged. And my uncle, and how he was corrupted. I know everyone’s expecting me to leap gladly into the CEO’s seat, but I don’t want to take three or four rungs at a time. I love what I do now. Why would I want to change that?’

‘Don’t feel pressured to do it. Take your own advice. If and when it happens, it will happen in time,’ you advise him.

‘I’m glad you think that. You don’t care about superficial trophies. You don’t care whether I’ve got a CEO’s crown on my head. It’s one of the many things I like about you, Y/N.’

‘Oh… so you like me?’ you tease, trying to elicit more compliments.

‘I liked you from the first moment I saw you! Well, from when I first saw your ar-’ He smiles with strange fondness, remembering the elevator incident.

‘You mean, my ‘skirt malfunction’?’ you intervene solemnly. ‘I thought we’d agreed never to mention it again?’

‘Did we?’ he says, genuinely mystified and deliberately cheeky in equal measure. ‘I might not _mention_ it again. Although I might _think_ about it…’ he adds, with a faraway glint in his eye.

‘So you liked me for my…?’

‘…skirt malfunction? Yes. I mean, most women I work with don’t accidentally show me their ar- – sorry, skirt – on the very first morning. But then I liked you because you _weren’t_ like some other women… like the ridiculous socialites that flutter around at every opportunity. You didn’t pretend to be exactly what I wanted. You were, and are, very much your own person. And if we have things in common, that’s because we genuinely do like the same books, and the same films, and you don’t need to fake that. Plus, everyone around me was telling me how great you were…’

‘Really? Who?’

‘Ben… in a kind of oblique, matey way. Once, over a beer. Maria. That won’t surprise you. Enthusiastically. Several times. Even Sam, in passing! And Sam’s normally taciturn about anything remotely romantic. And Joe. Especially Joe. He’s been a sledgehammer of a matchmaker… he did not shut up about you! Firstly, it was because it was he wanted you on his team, then more recently it’s been: _‘Y/N’s so smart’_ , _‘Y/N’s soooo wonderful’_ ; _‘Have you seen what Y/N did on this project, because it’s truly amazing’_ like I don’t know already…’ Gwil shakes his head in wonder, then turns to look at you properly. ‘What about you? Why did you like me?’

‘Me?’ you reply, deadpan. ‘I liked you because you were handsome.’

‘And… that’s it?’

‘Yes,’ you burst out laughing. ‘No. I mean, you _are_ gorgeous. Don’t go getting too vain about it. But I also liked that you were this senior person, yet didn’t behave like one. You’ve always got time for everyone: you’re friendly to people from the lowest ranks up. I also liked that from the moment we met, you acted in the most gentlemanly way. You didn’t tease me about my… skirt. You made me feel comfortable and welcomed. And you like books! And my cat likes you: she told me several times. Plus, I _may_ have mentioned that I liked you to a few people? Ben. And Maria, and Joe. Possibly several times. I think they’re quite sick of me talking about you, actually.’ You dare to look at Gwil and see that he’s grinning from ear to ear with all the compliments, which makes you smile in reflected response. ‘So yes. That’s most of it. I like you. I really, really like you.’

‘Well, that’s good,’ he sighs exaggeratedly, swinging off the wall and standing up. ‘Because I happen to really, really like you too.’

You hear the final bars of a song playing from the ballroom below, and the orchestra sweeping in for ‘Reception At The Palace’ from ‘Cinderella’.

‘I think this is a good time to ask: please can I have this dance?’ he smiles, holding out his hand. You place your hand in his willingly and let him guide you, skirts swishing, to the middle of the rooftop.

Moving closer, he places his other hand so his palm lies flat against the small of your back, each fingerprint making coy contact on the barely covered satin of your gown. You take a tiny step together so that your bodies meet and let your face dip softly towards his shoulder. It’s the closest you’ve ever been; the first time your bodies have fully touched, and it’s heavenly.

You hear a breath. Ten seconds. Another. He’s nervous; the same as you. Nervousness mingled with excitement, anticipation. Then something sweet but unexpected happens: his lips make a sudden but shy imprint against your forehead.

Before you have time to properly react, the music swells, and letting your close-held bodies slide together, you dip and glide in time, only hearing the song faintly as the intro drifts up the staircase and reaches the rooftop. You hum the half-remembered words as you dance:

 _So this is love_  
_So this is what makes life divine_  
_Mmmmmm..._

You’re holding on as you whirl and swoop, whirl and swoop, feeling like a princess in the arms of your prince as you dance for no-one but yourselves in the infinite presence of stars above, the dark velvet sky your endless backdrop.

Gwil holds your hand more confidently now, your twinned arms extended symmetrically as you waltz through the remaining bars of the song. He laughs in pretend dismay as you droop, unable to sustain the formal pose until the very end.

‘Hey, spaghetti arms!’ he quips, looking down at you so adorably, you decide you’re going to kiss him right there and then, ignoring all fairytale conventions about princes doing the kissing and waiting for marriage and eventual happy endings.

So you slow the dance and tip up on your toes still half-twirling to taste soft lips parted in hesitant expectation and oh it’s like you’ve never kissed before and you’ve discovered that this kiss is the most delightful, sensory, wonderful thing in the entire everlasting universe.

And the spark. The spark! It happens again, like you somehow knew it would. And it's warm and real and bright, and the world has somehow shifted once more.

‘We should probably re-join the party,’ you whisper, after you’ve kissed for the longest time.

‘Really? It’s nearly midnight,’ he whispers back. ‘I was thinking more that we could get into my carriage and run away?’

‘Mmmmm. That option sounds better. Let’s do that,’ you sigh, resting your head against his shoulder.

‘Although I don’t think we should _completely_ hide away. Maybe we should make a brief appearance at the ball first. Together.’

‘What are you thinking?’ you ask, intrigued.

‘Come with me…’

A couple of minutes later, you’re holding Gwil’s hand as he walks with you right through the middle of the ballroom dancefloor, twirling partners twisting to see who’s with who and faces blurring as you pass through the crowd. The only three faces you care about are right there and you’re so glad to see them because you’re blushing and their reactions are all that matter.

Ben winks and tips an imaginary cap; Maria’s mouth forms a little ‘o’ before she starts to silently clap her hands in glee. And Joe. Dear, dear Joe. He nods his head slightly as you pass, then blows you a kiss. You know that your phone will be exploding with messages in the morning.

As you and Gwil wait for the ancient elevator on the fifteen floor, willing it to arrive soon so you can make your escape, Sam re-enters the hotel lobby below, having been very persuasive with Celine. His nose is starting to twitch as he makes his way to the elevators.

 _Ding!_ The elevator arrives, and you enter the lushly carpeted, polished brass interior. But somewhere between floors 8 and 7, the indicator needle above the lift doors quavers, then stops completely and the lift judders to a halt. Gwil reacts calmly as usual, ringing the concierge from his mobile. ‘Around 15-20 minutes for an engineer,’ he reports. ‘We might be stuck here for a little while.’

You both look at each other, thinking exactly the same thing at exactly the same moment. Coming closer, encircling you with his arms like you’re about to slow dance again, he kisses you in a way that makes you melt.

Then: nothing but the sounds of material swishing, giggling, and a shared ‘mmmmm’

‘Y/N?’

‘Yes?’

‘That is a **_serious_** skirt malfunction…’

‘Shut up and kiss me again.’

More rustling, more giggling, and then a mix of ‘shhhh’s and sighs.

…

Down in the hotel lobby, Sam’s nose has stopped twitching, and he’s regarding the elevator dial that’s stuck steadfast between floors seven and eight. Putting his hands in his pockets, he walks away, whistling merrily, and takes the stairs back up to the ballroom instead.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> • Lyrics ‘So this is love...’ from ‘Reception At The Palace/So This Is Love’ from ‘Cinderella’ (1950 animated version)  
> • ‘Spaghetti arms’ is a quote from the film ‘Dirty Dancing’ ; )  
> • Lyrics ‘And it's warm and real and bright / And the world has somehow shifted’ from ‘I See The Light’ from ‘Tangled’


End file.
